bad blood and eloquentia
by call me milady
Summary: Hey babydoll, how are you liking your days in NYC?


**bad blood and eloquentia**

**by **onetwosevennine

**starring. **America and Belarus (Axis Powers Hetalia)

**author's note. **Seems like finals are making me very counter-productive. Instead of studying, I am writing my _ass_ off. I have two different drafts of this fic, actually. This one I felt was better and more awesome-like, plus the smarmy James Bond-esque lines will certainly cater to your heart's content. But if you would like to see the more down-to-earth version of this, just let me know and I'll most likely fork it over to you immediately C; Who knows, maybe I'll put it up for plot bunny adoption or something.

No, I'm sorry, this won't be a steampunk!AU with sepia cityscapes. I don't know where you got that idea, Miss-You-Know-You're-The-One-I'm-Talking-About. This'll just be a regular, shitty AU set in the usual, clichéd Big Apple where I attempt to portray a slick Alfred and a Natalia who doesn't even do much talking.

Yes, that was meant to sound awesome. Apparently it's not, so… sigh.

Dedicated to candidly a.k.a meanwhile a.k.a andthen. . .theworldstops a.k.a thepencilfactory a.k.a pencilbaby a.k.a whoever the heck she's calling herself these days. Also, to anegativeeleven a.k.a obviouslysomething, because I figured she ships America/Belarus like Fed-Ex. Maybe I'm wrong, I don't know. It doesn't matter. Just go stalk their fabulous fics, guys, like, _no_w.

**ratings and warnings. **T for language, like always.

**summary. **It kind of pays to be elusive, did you know that?

(it takes a thief to outwit a thief, after all.)

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**.**

**.**

Ideally, one will make contact with their mark at least three times.

Every con artist knows this. The first meeting is always the easiest. All you had to do was gain sight of the victim, the mark, and well, "mark" them. Study them without being so overtly obvious. Take them in, learn their about habits. Try to see past the Coke-bottle glasses, or the frizzy titian hair, or the faded, raggedy clothes bought from some random thrift shop. Be elusive. Be not-so-elusive. Elusive non-elusiveness, now wasn't that a virtue?

I hid my smirk behind my magazine. _Us Weekly_. I was invisible.

With one look, I thought that this would be an easy job to pull off. From a couple of benches away in the Central Park of New York City, I immediately found her sitting, legs crossed, engrossed in what seems to be a sketch. Her platinum blonde hair is piled up into a bun at the top of her head, held in place by a pretty (childish) white bow. While she didn't dress as glamorously I expected someone of the wealthy (make that _stinkin' rich_) Braginski clan to be, I had to admit that she was pretty easy on the eyes.

Decked out in various muted shades of blue and violet, the shirt, sweatpants, ascot and ballet flats she sported did a good job in camouflaging her amidst other (actual) similar-looking, homeless-chic hipsters. Good, but not great job. If it wasn't for that ridiculous bow on her head, I wouldn't have even noticed her. But I had to cut her some slack, everyone had their own peccadilloes. Hers just happened to be accessorizing in babydoll hair-decs like she wasn't too old for them.

Then again, in the streets of hardcore New York City, I doubt most people would even give a shit.

And since when am I _most people_?

She drew with her left hand, I noted. And ate her muffin with her right. Just as I began to think of ways to exploit these facts as a possible vulnerability, she easily switched her pen over to her right hand and continued drawing. Hmm, she's ambidextrous. That could be a slight problem.

Whatever, I thought to myself as I closed the pages of my _Us Weekly_, Jennifer Aniston staring at my face. I had achieved my goal. I had seen her.

That was all that mattered, really.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Natalia Arlovskaya Braginski wasn't what you could call the perfect daughter.

That title went over to her older sister, Yekaterina. Because Yekaterina was gorgeous, to put it simply. She inherited her parents' good looks along with a curvy body and a pair of jugs that earned her many stares. Still, she was modest, clean-cut and sweet-faced, so the majority of the stares were ones of adoration (though a few lustful twinkles also lurked in the background). With sleek, short hair, charming eyes, and full lips, Yekaterina was a role-model for girls everywhere. She was good at golf – surprisingly, considering her chest sometimes got in the way of her swing – enjoyed reading _Vogue_ and _Better Homes and Gardens_, and was a former ballet dancer. A gleaming star in the elite society – in the family.

The middle child, Ivan, was everyone's hopes and dreams. He was tall and confident, a little intimidating – a future CEO-in-the-making. He went to the right school (business, Harvard), associated with the right people (the fringes of the A-list crowd, the upper crust of the Upper East Side), and charmed all the right women (pretty, materialistic Barbie girls with legs that go on forever and would look great as trophy girlfriends). He and his older sister were able to organize the most amazing (and absurdly expensive) galas, all while spending inexplicable amounts of free time playing tennis, cultivating sunflowers, and reading _Wall Street Journal_. Needless to say, Ivan was a star as well – a rising one.

Natalia, on the other hand, was never as blessed as her older siblings. She was beautiful in her own right, choosing to grow out her long, silky tresses so that she could at least stand out in family pictures in terms of hairstyle. The only stares she earned were stares of vague interest and sometimes contempt when compared to dashing Ivan or lovely Yekaterina. Natalia was thin, almost painfully so, had the attitude of a cold-hearted, apathetic diva. She carried around an expensive Swiss Army knife with her all the time, and had dark blue eyes that always seem to find themselves rolled. Natalia preferred ice hockey to golf and tennis, _New York Times _to _Vogue_ and _Wall Street Journal_, and though she walked with the grace of a swan and the deadliness of a panther, she refused to dance at every banquet and gala she attended. She was the black sheep of the elite society.

She was perfect for me.

**.**

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**.**

You want to know about me?

All right. I suppose it was awfully rude of me not to introduce myself earlier, with all that babble about how 'manners matter' that Arthur instilled in me since the beginning of time.

My name is Alfred Jones. I'm twenty years old. I live in Queens with my twin (used to be long-lost) brother Matthew Williams, in a rather crowded apartment above a small pizza joint. I also enjoy long walks on the beach, and surfing for Internet porn.

Also, I'm kind of a criminal. Smalltimer, usually – but from the looks of my newest mark, I figured I wouldn't be one for long.

When I was younger, I used to live in London with my older cousin Arthur Kirkland. I lived there from I was five until I was twelve, because during those dark, dark years of my life (_yeah, right_) my parents had a messy divorce thing going on. When everything was signed and the paperwork was done (took them about eight years, give or take a few weeks) I moved to New York to live with my dad. I guess you could say everything went downhill from there. After all, a tiny beat-up apartment in Brooklyn with a dad that drove taxis for a living wasn't exactly what you would call glamorous, and I had to find _some_ way to entertain my embarrassingly angsty teenage self at the time.

Oh, and I had a falling-out with ol' Arthur before I went away to the Big Apple. I guess that contributed a bit too, considering the two of us never really spoke properly after that.

At fourteen, I've been labeled as somewhat of an enigma. I slept through lectures, I listened to music instead of doing work, and I was often caught using textbooks as a pillow or sketching oddly elaborate doodles in the margins instead of studying. And yet, I aced almost every exam I sat through that year. It was pretty awesome, I had to admit. Some teachers called me a genius. Others called me a waste of time. I guess I was a bit of both, minus the 'waste of time' part.

At sixteen, I discovered something to do that wasn't a waste of time, and at the same time was very useful in entertaining my embarrassingly angsty teenage self. Yes, this requires repetition, because, I'm pretentious like that. Years in New York can do that to people.

Namely, I found that I had a thing for theft. A distraction. A sleight of hand. A _talent_, my old buddies would say. _Damn, Jones, you're the Man._

I started my humble beginnings by stealing a soda. It's nothing to brag about, I know. But see –

Stealing a soda turned into stealing a pen. Stealing a pen had turned into stealing a watch. Stealing a watch had somehow turned into stealing a mint condition Mercedes-Benz from the dealer without being noticed.

Stealing a car had turned into, well, a criminal record.

Crook or not, you gotta admit that I did it in style.

At eighteen, I remained loyal to the art of pick-pocketing and shoplifting (along with the occasional grand theft auto) for a while, but then a few of my crook friends convinced me to dabble in short cons. Whether it was a fixed card trick on a street corner or forging checks at a shop, I noticed every one of our victims had something in common — a human quality that was easily exploited.

I know, I'm a genius. Didn't we just cover that?

It was generally split down into three categories, by the way. Some victims were arrogant and selfish. Some were too naive and trusting. Some were wishy-washy assholes stuck in between. A promise of quick, easy money appealed to everyone, but it especially appealed to those who wanted a challenge to prove their worth or maybe someone who believed in the quickly created, crafty sob story that went along with it. Either way we spun it, the second our mind follows any direction but common sense — people get sloppy and make mistakes.

That's why it was so easy for me to find Natalia. She got sloppy and she made a mistake.

Bad move, babydoll.

**.**

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**.**

Now, I know that in the art of conning, the second meeting with the mark was pretty important. In special cases like this one, it was practically required to exchange a few words with them. To establish a connection, primarily, a little bit of trust, but also to gain more information. That human quality that was easily exploited, you know, like I mentioned earlier. Usually, the contact consisted of small talk about the weather, or a collision with a quick apology. Maybe even a smile, to further charm them. That was what I planned.

Like the pro that I am, I casually strolled by her bench, easily avoiding gaggles of ditching school students, gangs of hipster-freaky-artistic-people, and the occasional stressed-out businessman who was obviously just out in Central Park because they needed a break from their monochrome, grayscale lives. Suckers, I know, but you get used to them after a while.

"Whoa," I said, trying to sound genuinely interested. "That's a brilliant work of art you've got right there."

Usually, I'm a master of reading people. Most of them were like open books, all I had to do was turn the pages. I figured it was the same about this girl, Natalia. I thought that she would look up, croak out a small thank you, and maybe melt a little under the brightness that was my million-dollar smile. I would start up an amiable chat about art – making sure I knew my shit first, which, I can assure you, I did – and slowly charm her into giving me what I wanted. I had mapped out the entire conversation in my mind; I knew where I intended for it to go.

Natalia, however did not, and she didn't move one inch.

There was a long silence in which I figured she probably didn't hear me. I decided to paraphrase, and perhaps speak in a louder tone (damn, Arthur would've been so proud of me).

"Seriously, I mean, it's gorgeous." I thought about slipping a 'just like you' line here, for the kicks, to see how she would react, but then I reminded myself that I was a con-man, not a flippin' pick-up artist. Besides, I should save my ammo for later, so to speak. You never know when it would come in handy.

Right now, I figured that maybe I should just try to get her attention first – which so far, I've been kind of failing at.

"Hello? Can you hear me?" I purposefully took care in enunciating my syllables so forcefully, I practically spat them out. "I said you have great drawings."

Finally, she looked up at me. Her gaze met mine. I could see her eyes widen at the sight of me and my winning smile, and I could almost imagine being in her shoes, thinking out her thoughts. Picturing myself in her eyes. A blond-haired, bespectacled young man with a mischievous grin and sky-blue eyes. Handsome, in a geeky, Hollywood-homely, guy-next-door sort of way. Seemed to appreciate her art, as well. Charming, unlike the boys that she's used to, who merely saw art as a way to flaunt your class-slash-pretentiousness and wealth. And genuine, that was the most important point of all – even though truthfully, there wasn't even one once of that crap in me. But she didn't know that. Right?

Natalia blinked.

My grin grew even wider. I was pretty sure I got this one in the bag.

That is, until she finally spoke.

"Shut up, asshole, I'm trying to draw."

And suddenly, I had this Swiss Army knife pressed up against my leg.

Well, this was going great.

**.**

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**.**

The third time a con-man meets his mark; you could count on it for being the execution. This is where the carefully formulated plan all came into motion. This is where every single detail begins to get counted into the whole grand design. This is when everything would either pull itself together, or unravel as fast as a pulled string on a loosely-knitted tapestry.

This was the make it or break it time.

I ignored the knife pressed dangerously close to my crotch and kept my grin from falling off my face. I said my next words in the cheeriest voice I could muster, though it wasn't so cheery she wouldn't take me seriously. I was coy, but I also meant business. Good, fun, non-personal business.

Yeah, right.

"Oh, sorry to bother you, Miss Natalia. How's your stay so far in New York City?"

For a split second, she froze. I could see something flash in her eyes and jolt around her body, making her completely tense. But I wasn't very educated in waxing poetic notions about a girl who just got stupefied, and besides, just as quickly as it came, everything melted into pure ennui. Lidded, steely eyes. Pursed lips. A carefully blank expression, coupled with crossed arms to match her crossed legs. This was her battle stance, I could tell.

"You found me," she said simply. I nodded. I gotta say, I kind of hoped that the girl would've at least been a little more eloquent. Maybe a classic '_How do you know my name?_' would be a good start, then a '_Get the hell away from me, stalker!_' to add some sort of spunky touch to the whole conversation. If she really wanted to be posh and snooty, I reckoned she would say '_Do you know who I am?_' although, I suppose, that would be redundant. Duh, I just said her name to her face, of course I knew her. Who she was.

"Who are you?"

I grinned.

**.**

**.**

**.**

Okay, so, you gotta know there's a reason I'm even chasing after Natalia Arlovskaya Braginski, World's Biggest Apathetic Diva-Bitch.

I'll give it to you straight. Because she's basically a runaway heiress, and I could be paid a shitload of money to bring her back home to her stinkin' rich little European fam.

Also, she kind of piqued an interest in me, and it was the kind of interest besides the fact that she was gorgeous as hell (even though her chest was nothing compared to the 'tracts of land' her older sister sported. Sometimes I imagine what it must be like to hold such a large rack in my hand, let alone carry it around every single day).

No, it was how utterly _stupid_ I thought she was.

Her dad owned Braginski Incorporated – that would probably soon get passed down onto the world's precious Ivan – and the man's gotta be worth billions. That's money billions of people aren't ever going to dream of having in their entire lives. Her mother was practically _the _socialite women of the year, if the woman wasn't rivaled by her own daughter Yekaterina. They went to after-parties and galas and charity auctions and spent money like it was going out of style. They owned dozens of other booming companies, a patent office, and God-knows-what-else. They were pretty much set for life.

They probably got everything they could ever wish for.

And yet, Natalia Arlovskaya, that poor-little-rich-girl, decided to throw everything to shit by running away from her comfortable, undoubtedly lavish home somewhere in Eastern Europe, to the brutal, narrow, honking streets of Manhattan, New York.

I mean, even though the first time I knew about her I immediately thought '_Whoa, this girl is pretty ballsy_', I guess I couldn't really judge her or anything. Who knows, maybe she had parental issues. Maybe she had fall-outs with her family over her choices and what she wanted to do with her life. Maybe she was secretly obsessed with marrying her older brother. I didn't know anything personal about her so I couldn't judge her. Most people didn't.

But again, since when was I _most people_?

She's got the entire world in her hands. Shit, when life was getting rough for my old buddies _—_ and you better believe me when I say it was pretty _goddamn_ _rough — _they didn't run away to Moscow or Minsk or even the Upper East Sides of New York City. Because guess what, they couldn't. So you know what they did? They faced their problems head on.

Once I managed to con her, or maybe even get her to come home, I'm gonna show her a piece of my mind. I'm gonna make her see that she wasn't even minutely right in running away from a life most people would kill for. I'm gonna make her see that she is absolutely, positively _stupid_ for doing so. I'm gonna make her see that for once in her sheltered, obscenely-filthy-stinking-rich life, if money couldn't buy happiness, it certainly couldn't buy sanity. And if she was attempting to find _that_ now, it's obviously too late for her.

For once, maybe I could just teach the little skank to be _grateful_.

But for now, I'll just keep on struggling so that her Swiss Army knife doesn't go anywhere near my vital regions.

"The name's Alfred Jones," I tell her, grin as wide as ever. "How you doin', babydoll?"

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**endnotes. **Guys, I think I'm becoming addicted to writing usually peppy characters into deadpan snarkers. First Antonio and now Alfred? This whole thing just screams 'what is this I don't even – '

And the ending was really weak. I'm sorry D: I just really wanted to post this. Maybe I'll work on it again when I'm _not _nearing my Finals. I think I will. So, uh, stay tuned?

Thanks for reading, and if you leave a review I can assure you that I will fucking love you to bits. Yup.


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